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The economy sucks a pair of used transvestite thongs. Trust me, I know. I’m a poor law school student. Well, “poor” is a relative term. I’m on a scholarship, my parents help me out, and I bleed my husband dry. Fucker got to marry ME. The least he can do is sign his pay check over to me. HA! Perpetuating female stereotypes is FUN!

Like this, except with my boot on his throat.

So, what can you do about Christmas presents when you can barely feed yourself or can’t afford to put a dent in your three-bottle a day whisky habit… I mean indulgence?

I can stop anytime I want. I just don't want to. Fuck you!

You don’t want to be “that guy” during the family Christmas gift opening extravaganza. You know, the stupid shit getting gifts while NO ONE seems to be able to find ANYTHING under the tree from you. Normally, I advocate the getting without giving scenario. But, it’s Christmas! Even I can’t stand to phone it in on this one.

So, I figure there must be a shit ton of other people out there in the same boat. In the spirit of giving, I decided to give you poor schleps some help. These ideas have worked for me in the past… just not well. Who cares? It’s the thought that counts, right? Well, prepare to have that adage stretched to it ever-loving limits.

Re-Gift

Look, we all have gotten gifts that were on the meatier side of a shit sandwich. “Oooooooooo! School supplies!” How about that box of socks from Aunt Mimi? Don’t even get me started on that goddamn tub of Oxy Clean I got when I was 16. Just what the fuck were you trying to imply, Uncle Merl? Such an asshole.

A subtle sign of Uncle Merl's belief in white power?

This doesn’t even have to be stuff that you, outright, threw into the “reject” bin. But, let’s face it, it’s going to be. Just mix it up a bit. Don’t give Aunt Hortense the leg wax she gave you last year. Give that gem to Uncle Pete. Remember that box of bath beads sitting in the closet collecting dust? Well, hell, that’s a great gift for you 15-year-old cousin. Kids huff bath beads these days, right?

Free stuff you got at work/school

If you travel around for work and attend various useless trade shows or subject yourself to the joy that is a vender show at a university campus, you know what I’m talking about. These places are teeming with useless bullshit people can’t stop taking. Little flashlights with their company logo. Knock off Beanie Babies with their company logo. A travel mug… with their company logo. The whole point of this is to plant your company in the subconscious. What better way of doing this than using free shit no one has a need for?

I have 20 of these from University vender fairs, alone. Why the fuck do I need 20? Why do I keep taking them?

If you look hard enough, you’ll find some practical shit mixed with the fake beanie babies and mini Breathalyzers. Who wouldn’t love to get a USB drive with almost no space? What kind of loved one would not want a leaky travel mug with the Halliburton logo? Take it a step beyond and mix and match. What cousin wouldn’t be grateful with a hand sanitizer/hand lotion combo? Come to think about it, that sends out a bunch of messages not association with the Christmas Spirit.

Except for the bacon flavored lube I got at the Sex World booth. That's all Momma's.

Stuff from around your house

Are you a shut-in? Do you want to be? Are you too poor, cheap, or lazy to actually step foot outside your house to go to conventions to get free shit? Does the thought of another year of mall shopping for people you barely like sink you into a deep depression? Well, good news Droopy! There’s not need to mingle with the rabble! Just look around you house. Do it! You live in a fucking sty. You should be ashamed of yourself. God I hate you.

Where was I? Oh yeah, I hate you. No! Wait! Oh yea. Christmas presents. My article about icky shut-ins is next month. Anyhoo… your house is a treasure trove of goodies. It’s a time capsule filled with outdated interests and failed life goals. Just because you failed doesn’t mean others will. Give that pair of roller blades to little Jimmy. That calligraphy set you never opened? Well, wrap that sommabitch! Remember that typewriter you use as a door stop? Give that ancient bastard to your nephew and call it an antique.

Also makes for a good blunt object if the little fucker gives you shit about it.

Stuff from around other people’s houses

Okay, look, I’m not advocating the act of breaking into someone’s home and stealing their shit to use for Christmas presents. I’m merely suggesting you do it when you’re already in the house for a visit. Let’s face it, you looked around your house for things to wrap up and dump on loved ones for Christmas, but your junk is sad. YOU don’t even want it. Maybe it’s not even that. Perhaps you’re a scrappy little transient without a permanent residence. Well, jingle balls! That’s what friends are for!

I'm so not talking about this.

Odds are that your friends’ place is a considerable upgrade from the hovel you live in. There’s no shame in that. Remember, you don’t have to enjoy the finer things in life in order for you to find good Christmas gifts. Your friends do. Next time you drop by, bring an empty pillow case. Come on, they won’t miss it. That neat little cat statue would be perfect for crazy aunt Sofia. The commemorative plate they got on their trip to Pearl Harbor? Whammo! Instant collectors item for the history buff in your family. It’s Christmas. They’ll understand. It’s all about giving.

And beating the ever-loving shit out of anyone that stands in your way.

Wait a second there, partner. Don’t forget to get something for that someone special, too. There you are, thinking about others and you plum forgot all about yourself. Awwww. That’s so sweet. Tis the reason for the season! Treat yourself. It’s alright for Santa to take a kick back every now and then. Go on, treat yourself. After all this Christmas shopping you deserve a little present of your own.

Yeah, that’s right. Read that title again. It’s for fucking real, baby. I is a married chick, now. I have joined the ranks of domestic married women, everywhere. I am one with all the Suzy Homemakers the world over! Yeah! Betty Crocker and some shit.

Keeping it real in the kitchen bitches.

Or, not.

I do make a mean cottage pie, though.

Alright, we all know I’m not the poster chick for domesticity. When other little girls were planning their fairy tale weddings, I was drawing up plans to free Northern Ireland through a complex, yet sexy series of events. I never really gave two shits if I ever got married. Never wanted to, never cared, didn’t need the bullshit. Some girls go through, “this is the one” syndrome with every guy they date. Mine was more, “this is the one for now.” No, that’s not a polite way of saying I was a super horny sorority vixen. Fuck, it totally is.

Although, this was my frat party outfit.

Fuck it, whatever. Who are you to judge me? Damn it, stop being an asshole! Son-of-a-whore!

OK, sorry. I’m better now.

So, I’ve been seeing this guy for a good while. He’s manly, hot, and hung (too much info?). It started out as a semi-regular booty call situation. I say “semi-regular,” because it started off as a long distance relationship. He lived/lives in central Alberta and I live on the ass-end of humanity in Western Montana. That’s a good ten hours apart. But, Momma has a way of becoming a life crippling addiction to men, women, and a few transsexuals. It may not be a record, but the Canuck would drive the ten hours every time I flashed the booty call signal.

It’s one hell of an app.

The Ren addiction became overwhelming. The hoser fell for me. That’s not anything new. I can’t go a day without someone writing a marriage proposal in the sky via old-timey skywriting plane.

“Again? Who is it this time?”

What I didn’t count on and never really had to deal with was the addiction going both ways. This is some sappy shit. I apologize for being all lovey-dubby. It’s out of character for me, I know. Deal with it. I’ll go back to the normal sexist, self absorbed sex kitten you all have come to know and love with your very being.

Again, there is no shame in admitting that I am your Irish sunrise.

I figured that after my long life on this planet, I might as well settle for this dumbass. He’s already demonstrated his complete and baffling devotion to me. Who hasn’t? But, as I mentioned, I sorta kiiiinda liked this guy in more than just my pants. Yeah, it’s the L word.

After some deep soul-searching, we decided to get hitched. The reason being.. I don’t have to justify our decision. Doode, I’m going to come through your computer and bitch slap you.

Sorry. I’m defensive. I apologize to all those reading who are not fuck shits. What’s that, like 10% of you? You know who you are.

We planned to spend a portion of my spring break in Las Vegas for a super-dooper romantic trip. Hey! Vegas! Home of the drive through wedding. No hassle, no complications, no fuss. Just the two of us, a couple of witnesses, and an official that may or may not be an Elvis impersonator.

“Hunka-hunka burning MATRIMONY!”

We were sold. What’s the point in waiting? No, there is no point. Momma knows what she wants. If she didn’t want it, it wouldn’t happen. I was determined. He was ecstatic for the privilege and honor of marrying me.

Bing, bam, boom; we had our suite at the Luxor reserved, the 20 minutes at the chapel reserved, and a whole assortment of wedding night lingerie to make him praise God for the blessing of being in my life. No wedding dress, tux, or reception. Simple, baby. Expressing our love by making the ultimate commitment in the eyes of our Irish Lord, Jesus O’Nazereth. We know full well that, being both Catholic [IRISH Catholic for me], death is the only way out after the deed is done.

Till death do us part, motherfucker.

Knowing that this was the only thing that a couple can do in Vegas that will not stay in Vegas, we figured it was a good idea to keep all of this a secret. Why? Well, we didn’t want to put up with a bunch of bullshit from family, friends, my army of devoted followers, etc. I say “bullshit,” to encompass all the possible reactions one can expect when proclaiming a quickie marriage in Vegas. That’s something you want to do after the fact.

Dropping one of these on family and friends from a safe distance is advisable.

The whole thing was set in motion. We were giddy, knowing the big secret. Don’t get me wrong, no one was going to start a war or disapprove vehemently of our union. Well, one person would. But, more on that fucker later. I wanted to do this on our own terms. I guess that’s some of the reason we felt drunk the entire time. That and, well, actually being drunk. But, at least half of that feeling was the complete control of our destinies. We had some awesome pre-wedding ceremony sex. I mean, awesome. Fuck… earth shattering super banging. I think it was the worst kept secret in the entire hotel.

That and I wore this t-shirt, constantly.

We went to the hotel chapel, had a short run down of what was going to happen, added the cost to our hotel bill, then pulled the trigger. It was easier than getting a gun permit in California. We were Mr and Mrs Whatsits. That intoxicating feeling we had before our wedding just EXPLODED to the nth degree. The Luxor comped a dinner and $100 worth of gambling chips. That’s it. It was awesome. We had rings and just glowed with excitement. Oh yeah, we fucked each other stupid in private and public places.

It’s only a crime if someone turns you in. It’s sort of hot if they just watch.

It may not have been a traditional wedding, but it was OUR wedding set at our speed. We partied everywhere! We took in some burlesque shows, some dirty version of Little Bo Peep with Holly Madison, a topless comedy club, some gambling, and then more things that involved women without tops. It was a recurring theme on our trip.

Didn’t take Momma long to talk the bartender out of her restrictive top.

Before I go any further, I feel the need to debunk any unauthorized rumors floating around. I know “Ren got married,” means different things to different people. This is rumor control; here are the facts:

I am not pregnant

He is not pregnant

We were NOT drunk during the ceremony

This isn’t part of a Witness Protection Program deal

I AM NOT PREGNANT. Drop it. Fuck!

Our holiday of just married bliss started to show some cracks when we figured that maybe telling our friends and families would be a good idea. Telling them while we’re still in Las Vegas, that is. Give the bomb time to explode, its social faux pas shrapnel embedding nice and deep in the psyches of those we hold dear. That’s the humane thing to do. So, I used a simple, almost elegant, social bomb to start the chain reaction.

·

·I think that may have crashed Facebook for a few hours. The amount of cell phone and internet traffic coming from Edmonton, Montana, Idaho, Washington, and Northern Ireland was enough to completely jam up the works, A´ la major terrorist or natural disaster. When you get a bunch of Irish Catholics who have been duped into not participating or attending a wedding of one of their own; it’s war.

I’m sorry, Pacific Northwest.

We enjoyed our remaining few days off the grid. That is, until my mother informed us that she took it upon herself to book a flight from Las Vegas to Spokane, the nearest grown up airport Northern Idahoans have. I pointed out to her that we didn’t have a car. We planned on flying right back home and get my ride from the airport lot. No worries. Once we land in Spokane, there would be “a car” waiting for us. OK, fine. I owe my family a little leeway here. They want to meet my new husband; their new kin. The husband, on the other hand, smelled a set up.

He went all Admiral Ackbar on me.

The Husband, some how, must have heard stories about my family that didn’t put us in a very peaceful and understanding light. Every family has their history. Some were involved in bootlegging during Prohibition. Some were involved with assembling explosives and blowing up columns of British trucks. So maybe there are still some out there fighting for the Cause.* Of course, it may have something to do with some of my family being members of a fairly known MC in those parts. I grew up with bikers. That explains my charm and precociousness.

*Editor’s Note: No one in 21st century Northern Ireland can pinpoint what “The Cause” means. There are a dozen or so out there. Take your pick. Find one that feels good to you! Don’t like it? Trade it in for a brand new cause!

The entire flight, The Husband was preoccupied with facing his own death a lot sooner than he hoped. Getting our bags at Spokane, we meandered to the ground transportation area. A large man in a black suit held a placard with our names written in flowing fashion. OK, so maybe a scene or two from “The Transporter” popped into my head.

We got into this black town car that drove us all the way to my parents’ house. I spent the 45 minutes assuring him that he was creating a scenario in his head that couldn’t possibly play true in real life. [note: I was completely fucking wrong] I was excited! I’m a newly wed and so pumped to show off The Husband, our rings, and share all the stories. The house was coming in sight. I guess my smiling and giddiness was a little infectious. The Husband, for a moment, had forgotten to be scared. Not to worry. That wouldn’t last.

Our car made the last bend and my parents’ home came into view! Wow, there sure are a lot more cars in the driveway than I thought would be in the middle of a weekday… in the middle of the week. Well fuck me running, there’re like a dozen motorcycles hanging around the driveway, too. Oh, it’s a welcome to the family party! We got out of the car and made our way to the front porch to find twelve angry-looking men in MC kutten with club colors standing on the porch like it was a parade review. Among these big, angry cowboys of the road were two of my cousins, Reece and Aodh. I knew The Husband’s train from funtown was now heading for Ass Beating Butte.

Oh, sweetie. I wish I could. But, Da already poured the whisky.

Nothing was said. They grabbed Husband and threw him in a van, then took off like the wind. A wind that just kidnapped my brand new husband. None of us would see him for a good 24 hours. But, whatever. My Da was grilling steak and had an open bottle of whisky for his little girl. I’m sure The Husband was fine.

He didn’t even have the chance to put me on his life insurance policies.

Oh, come on! Stop thinking the worst. He didn’t die. They just pushed him off a bridge. Come to think of it, that is something a guy just has to go through in order to prove his worth. It wasn’t anything too illegal. A long time was spent berating him and pissing all over his manhood. Figuratively. No one was actually pissing on his dick. That’s just fucked up.

*Note from photo research staff: There are just some illustrations we refuse to find.

They tied his foot to a cinder block and asked him if he could fly. Their theory was, that if Husband really loves me, he wouldn’t be afraid to take a leap of faith. Then, without an answer, they pushed him off. Aaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrgggggghhh! Splat.

No. There wasn’t a “splat.” With all the commotion, Husband didn’t realize that the brothers hooked him up to a bungee dealy and not a cinder block. He bounced back. His jeans may have been a little more urine soaked than normal, and I am damn sure the boxers he had on had to be burned. They returned him the next day, drunk, sweaty, and dry heaving. Back off, ladies. He’s MY MAN!

My broken, soot covered, vomit spewing, shell of his former self man.

That’s sort of how it went over the next several weeks. My mother is very adamant that we have a Catholic ceremony to “strengthen our … something or other.” Something about getting officially married in the eyes of the Church. Now, that will be fun to coordinate. Good luck to them figuring out how to get two families 1000 miles apart to come to a consensus on something like this. Oh well, don’t care. Just more alcohol and meat products for me. I did manage to spend a good week or so with The Husband’s family in Edmonton. As expected, they fucking love me. I’m so charming. Tee hee. Even one of his older brothers was completely enamored by me. I fucking ROCK Alberta!

It’s just so hard leaving my adoring fans.

Oh, that guy I mentioned earlier in the article that would lose his shit when he found out Husband and I got married. It’s the middle child of the family. He is known by many names; newfie, tool, anger-man, the tirade king… But, we here at FWTC call him Roode. That’s right bitches. I married into Roode’s family. Try to stop me now, motherfucker! Your nightmare is now a reality! I’m on the inside, entrenched. There is no way to escape me. Roode, my big brother-in-law, life as you know it has ended. Enjoy!

That’s right. Read that title over again. Again. One more time. Got it, now? I fucking rule. Of course, this is no surprise to you readers. How many other little blonde Micks can mock international law, escape molestation by a clown on Saint Patrick’s Day, and manage to rub elbows (among other body parts) at a Playboy Mansion Halloween extravaganza? None. You know none. Don’t even try to pretend you do. You’re just embarrassing us all.

You know who you are.

2010 will be known for a lot of things: um, something about whales, maybe? There was a lot of bullshit surrounding the IPhone. Then, again, 2010 was the year when people, the world over, were smacked in the taint by the roughest recession since the years of Warner Brothers cartoons in movie theaters and cars were built to last. Come to think of it, 2010 sucked a major amount of yak ass. Companies downsized, business went broke, government lost its mind, and that Justin Bieber fucker was everywhere. 2010 was such a shitshake, even my own Da pined for the “good old days” of the Cold War.

Say what you want about it. The world was a lot more stable, food and fuel a shit ton cheaper, and if worse came to worse, mankind would go out in a fiery vengeance of style.

There is one shining part of 2010 that must be remembered and recorded for the sake of future history. We don’t want our future history only talking about gun fights at Florida school board meetings or devoting an entire chapter in a text book to the cluster fuck that is BP. There was one brightly burning light that 2010 emitted during its waning hours filled with party goers blowing chow then trying to get into the pants of someone who just might end up being a distant cousin. What was this shining beacon of hope? Where was it? What did it mean? Calm the fuck down. I’ll tell you.

It was ME. That’s right world, ME. I joined FWTC in 2009. I did what I had to do to get on the ground floor of something that will never make a dime or win any journalism awards. That kind of shit is gold! After the arguing, death threats, and constant hazing I clawed my way to the top! I made it to “COLUMNIST. There’s no pay, no perks, and little in the way of publicity. But, Momma was determined to break the racial barrier and shoe horn a nutty little blonde Irish chick into the ranks of FWTC. Roode and Tresckow bitched and moaned about it. Roode didn’t want more chick shit on the site, being that Adel had that covered. Tresckow was convinced I would use the site as a soapbox to spread my anti-loyalist beliefs to the masses. (if hating Loyalists in Northern Ireland is wrong, I don’t want to be right). The point I heard time and time again was, “You’re not a writer. There’s a difference between doing funny things and WRITING about them.” Fuckers didn’t believe I could translate my drunken comedy of errors into an article. What BULLSHIT!

After a bit of whining and the occasional exercise I like to call, “Total War” (steel Roode’s tires, sign Tresckow up for a fuck ton of large and lovely women catalogs to be sent to his home, and harassing Adel every day by rearranging her furniture in innovative and surprising ways) they finally threw me a “guest writer” gig. It got a good amount of hits and FWTC decided to keep me on. Like I was some sort of lost fucking puppy. Like adding The REN would have done anything but make this piece of shit, dime-a-dozen blog rocket to the stars!

I had a bit of a handicap going for me; the other writers having a year head start and all. Adel, Roode, and Tresckow already found their niches and some “loyal” readers. That didn’t deter me. I jumped right in to hammer out some flaming awesomeness in 2009. Then, I decided that 2010 was going to be Momma’s year!

Interesting thing is that after I was two or three articles in, the site’s readership went up. On our Facebook Page it seemed that my articles were getting passed around a lot more than the others. What could that mean? Am I eons funnier than the other writers? Is it because I am witty and urbane? Perhaps it’s because I have been elevated to FWTC‘s sex symbol? Yes. Yes, to all of these. I’m fucking fantastic. The readers know it. Our sponsors know it. Future history knows it.

I fucking rule!

Perhaps, the best indicator that tells us 2010 was the year of the Ren are the readership stats. The boring side of any blog is, without a doubt, the admin side. That’s where our geeks look at all the statistics to see which article was the most popular in any given week or month; which author was the most popular, etc. Tresckow and Adel are the number crunchers; plowing through it to get the quarterly stats and come up with a game plan for the site’s sponsorships and whatnot. Well, as most sites are want to do at the end of the year, we wanted to connect all the dots and see just who among us was the most “popular.” Which one of us had the most read articles, who stayed on top the longest, blah blah blah. I have no interest in calculations. I’d rather drink the better part of a bottle of Shanahans and wake up with a stripper (a HOT stripper, please). I’m the sort of girl who just wants to hear the end result.

For the love of God, Tresckow! Just tell me what the fuck all the math means!

I tuned out just about everything Tresckow’s said about growing our sponsorship base, advertising, topic and writer expansion… JUST GET TO THE FUCKING END! Flipping to the next slide, a table was shown listing all our articles, writers, and topics in order of popularity and readership. I looked up, expecting Roode to start tap dancing; fucker always thinks he’s the one who puts butts in the seats. All I heard was, “Are you fucking kidding me?” bellowing from Roode’s mouth like the words were on fire. The top author of EVERY quarter of 2010 AND the number 1 author for the entire year was

So, what will 2011 bring for the NUMBER 1 writer on FWTC? I’m not sure. Maybe a series of video blogs instructing the viewer on the proper ways of peeling a potato. Or a pod cast where I can dispense my worldly wisdom of the most efficient and orgasm-tastic sexual positions. Oh, yeah. Bacon. Bacon must be a steady theme throughout 2011. Shit, maybe I’ll contract with cable and launch my own reality show. Well, “surreality” show”

Yeah, you read the title right. After a series of retarded, drug induced, and batshit nuts events I was asked to attend a Playboy playmate casting call. Yes. Me. What? No, I’m not drunk. I’m not drunk at the moment, just buzzed. It happened, damn it!

It wasn’t just another LSD fueled dream… at least I don’t think it was.

How did this happen? I’m not 100% sure. Apparently, a few months back, a few other girls and I were partaking in several mind altering substances and left to our own devices. So, as usual when you have a small group of hot, stoned, and drunk chicks by themselves, we took naked pictures of each other. That happens at other parties, right?

Like this, but without the modesty.

At some point someone came up with the idea that we should send in pics to Playboy. Look, some people get angry when they’re drunk, others send in applications to a men’s magazine. As it turns out, I was the only one stoned, drunk, and determined enough to actually send my shit in. Everyone else backed out. Fuckers. “Oh, let Ren submit nudes of herself to Playboy… we’re going to be lame.” The eerie thing is that my porn star prophecy seems to be coming true.

Then, I outright forgot about the whole thing. I mean, it’s Playboy. OK, pictures of naked women are awesome, but Playboy has been on a serious decline over the years. This is part of the reason they cut their circulation by 38% in 2009. That and we’re all pretty desensitized due to an over abundance of hard core internet porn.

This doesn’t shock society, anymore. You see worse on CSI.

So some chuckle head at Playboy gave me a call and invited me to a casting call. At first, I had no idea what he was talking about. Was this a fucking joke? I would have bet some serious cash that it was Roode pulling some shit. It was legitimate. After a fun game of “What the fuck did Ren do now?” I pieced it all together. HA! That’s hilarious. I would have posed for nudes sober. I don’t really have many inhibitions for alcohol and pot to let loose.

I tracked down the biography I sent to them. After reading it a few times, I was surprised I got a call. OK, Momma can put butts in the seats. But, as Tresckow so thoughtfully pointed out, it should have been obvious to them that I was a complete Irish nutjob. Go ahead. Click on that bad boy below and look for yourself.

And they STILL wanted to see me.

Ladies and gentlemen, that application isn’t just some goofy illustration for humor’s sake. That is the, honest to Guinness, genuine article. There was something about the way I came off in that bio that grabbed their attention. Other than the hot ass nude pics I sent in. I mean, on looks alone, I could be the grand poobah of my own nudie mag. They get thousands of submissions from tons of young ladies every year. Some want to use Playboy as a stepping stone into C-list movies. Others want the gig for the cash and the chance to be a washed up C-list actor. No matter what, all these chicks have one thing in common: they care. The quality that set me apart was the fact that I didn’t give one iota of a goat’s shit. Jesus O’Nazareth, I wouldn’t have remembered the whole cockeyed stunt if someone didn’t give me a call.

What? Who the hell has naked pics of me NOW?

Did I mention I got the call at work? Yeah, I did. It’s one thing taking a personal call from a drunken buddy when you’re at the cube farm. I mean, what’s the office protocol when you get a call from naked chicks monthly? Naturally, I maintained a demure and refined disposition. By that, I mean, I yelled, “HA! People want me to pose naked!” For reasons unknown, the entire office came to a dead stop. Dude? Why? I mean I had to put up with that sort of shit when someone’s kid shot a baby out of their cooch. “I’m a grandmother,” some dipthong would bellow. Big fucking deal. Women in China and India are churning kids out like it’s the diaper shitter industrial revolution. Posing butt ass naked in Playboy is an achievement. Someone, decades from now, will be researching the evolution of hot, naked, Irish blonds and BANG there I am. It’s on the fucking record, baby. History has been made. No one is going to remember some mouth breeder’s dipshit kid a hundred years from now. Unless the kid turns out to be another Abe Lincoln or Black Gallagher. What are the odds of that?

A parent can only dream.

I mulled the offer over in my head. I had to do this right. Make a list of pros and cons. That’ll help me make a sound, adult decision.

Pros:

Money

Free plane ticket to casting call

Bragging rights

Money

Inappropriate behavior for a law student

Cons:

Casting call held in Philadelphia

Coach flight

Family horror

The whole objectification of women thing

Inappropriate behavior for a law student

Well, shit. Who doesn’t want to be objectified now and again? This is the sort of thing I would put on my resume (try not to take a double take at that, fuckers) and … fuck it. I don’t need good reasons. Momma’s doing this shit.

Above: My family’s collective expression.

Surprisingly, my father supported me. He trusts my decisions and knew I would just have fun with the whole thing.

But, he would still beat the ever-loving shit out of anyone who actually looked at the pictures.

I’ve never been on the East Coast before. I’ve never really wanted to be. It would just be little ‘ol me in the big, scary City of Brotherly Homicides. In an effort to keep me safe (and to keep others safe from me) I was assigned a chaperone. A cousin. An older cousin who, let’s say, belongs to an adult version of the 4H Club.

A 4H Club that will beat you with a sawed off pool cue until you have detached retinas.

So, everything was set for my drunken naked East Coast extravaganza. Almost. Hmmmm… who do I know in that triangle of pigeon shit known as the Delmarva area? Who? Oh yea, Tresckow. That’s it. Being the only one on staff at FWTC not to be in a part of the country where grizzlies roam free and engage in the occasional zucchini fight, he was in the prime location to suffer my wrath. I mean enjoy a visit from me.

Something he compared to the Bubonic Plaque.

Fast forward a month and I was on my way. We landed around 10 at night. Or 8. Fucking time zones. Let me take a moment to tell you about my first impressions of the Philadelphia International Airport and Bus Station. It’s a low brow version of a sewage treatment plant. Tresckow pretty much nailed it on the head when he said it was a piece of shit bundled in fancy gift wrap. Those fuckers like to play a cruel game of checked luggage roulette. No only does it take FOREVER to get your shit off the plane, it’s NEVER at the noted carousel. Flight from Seattle to Philadelphia luggage: carousel B. WRONG! We’re fucking with you. It’s really coming out on carousel D. HA! Wrong again! It’s carousel A. This time, we’re not kidding. FUCK YOU! It’s spewing out on E. Muhahahahahaha!

They really mean, “Fuck off.”

Being a good friend and pseudo-sister-in-law, I called Tresckow, non stop as soon as I stepped off the plane. I called him when we got into a taxi. I called him when we got to the hotel. I called him when I found the mini bar. I called to tell him what I ordered from room service. I called him incessantly, is what I’m trying to say here. That’s what friends do.

We arranged to meet at the hotel the next morning. My appointment was around 10 AM, but I wanted Tresckow to be there to meet us earlier. I figured he would keep my cousin company while I was getting all naked and shit. I didn’t think either of them would mind waiting for me in a hotel full of hot potential centerfolds and whatnot. I sure as hell enjoyed myself.

Seriously, what’s not to like here?

Leaving Tresckow and the cousin to their own devices, I took my bag-o-outfits to my interview. They tell you to bring a bikini, nightie, a sexy dress, and be prepared to be naked for a while. I’m always prepared to be naked. So, no biggie. I sat around outside the room for a few minutes sizing up the competition. HA! Competition. No such thing. It begins and ends with me. Fuck-a-yucks didn’t know who they were up against. I’m all charming and shit.

I was called into the room and met a tribunal of interviewers, including one of the hoity-toity photographers. I did the typical dog and pony show that chicks in that situation do; modeled different outfits, went through some awkward poses, and did the whole nude thing. I guess I did well. They didn’t throw a brick at me. A rack full of different clothes was on the opposite side of the room. The photographer told me to pick something out to wear. I went simple- white dress shirt, a Seattle Mariners cap (which I brought with me), and… well, that was all. Dude, those pics turned out smoking hot. I mean, dayummmm. Want to see one? OK, maybe one pic.

HA! You’re going to have to plunk down some cash to see Momma’s goods.

After all that, the interview segment began. They fired some of your standard questions at me: “If you cold be a tree, what kind would you be?” “Why do you want to be a model?” “Tell us about your craziest lover.” “What’s the square root of 3044442.008?” I answered each trying not to roll my eyes. Finally, I blurted out, “BORING!” That derailed the interview like locomotive hitting a pile of dead cows.

“Boring?” the dude with the power tie asked. “Are we boring you?”

My parents always told me to tell the truth. What did I care if I offended a bunch of people interviewing me for something I really didn’t want? “Yeah,” I responded. “These questions suck. I’m interviewing for Playboy, not a fucking job at an insurance company. Ask questions with some balls. BIG balls. You know, like ‘If you could dispose of British rule in Northern Ireland how would you do it?’ ‘Why are you so awesome?’ ‘How do you make an Irish car bomb with just a corn cob and a piece of dental floss?’ Those questions have big ‘ol brass danglers!”

Contrary to what you may think happened next, I didn’t get thrown out by security. After I answered my own questions, (start an underground campaign to overthrow the figurehead monarch- because, I fucking rule- hollow out the corn cob and use the floss as a fuse after soaking it in gasoline) they kept talking to me. It all went a completely different direction. I told them about my drunken rampages throughout Northern Ireland, Idaho, and Montana. I told the story of my drunken excursion/invasion of Alberta. Hell, I even pantomimed what it was like to jump out a window, landing on a nun. I was the opposite of everyone they’ve ever interviewed. They loved it.

I was the nudie model equivalent of Bizarro Superman and they dug it.

Apparently, I was so utterly fascinating, they bumped the next interview so they could spend more time with me. Well, duh. I’m a fucking treasure. It’s like I was the first little militant Irish girl from Idaho they’ve ever met. Okay, I may have told them that I fully plan on ruling the Pacific Northwest and the Canadian province of British Columbia with an iron fist. The tribunal just laughed at the joke. Yeah. Right. Joke.

I left after an hour interview (they’re usually less than half that) with a request for another in LA and an invitation to a party later this year at the Playboy mansion. Nah, I’m kidding. No. I’m not. Am I? Maybe. Then again, maybe not.

I guess you’re just going to have to watch TMZ.

What does this all mean? Hell if I know. One of their talent dudes told me there is an excellent chance of being on, at least, the cyber magazine with better than average chances at something bigger. You know what? I still don’t care. Either way, I’m cool with it. I’m just along for the ride. And that ride is taking me to LA. For free. FREEEEE! I can handle that.

Once I left the premises with Tresckow and my illegal firearm carrying cousin, I took some time to explore the area. I’m not sure why. It was hot. You people in that area may be used to that. I’m not. Momma wasn’t built for that kind of ass crack moistening heat. Humidity? What the fuck is that? How do you people live like this? Although, I hear winters in the central Atlantic states is pretty mild. It only gets to 30 degrees with a few feet of snow. We call that Spring in Montana. For fuck’s sake there was a winter weather advisory in motherfucking August.

Yup. Just another August ’round these parts.

The three of us explored all the excitement interstate 95, northern Delaware, and northern Maryland had to offer. Which was nothing. Delaware? Why are you pretending to be a state? You’re not fooling anyone. You’re living a fucking lie, fudge sacks.

Really? Who the fuck do you think you are?

The absolute best thing we did during this whole trip was visit Tresckow’s house. That’s right. He let me into his home. Reluctantly, but he did it nonetheless. We drank whisky and beer. Then more whisky. We gave him a gift bottle of whisky then proceeded to drink it. I raided his liquor cabinet and rooted around in his fridge. Did I forget to say that the fucker put a bag of used, stinky cat litter under my bed when he came out to our place for Adel’s wedding? I did? Well, it was payback time! In the short time I was in the heart of Fortress Tresckow I managed to deal him the pain. I glued all the caps of his toiletries shut, toilet papered the second story of his place, and committed another atrocity he has yet to figure out. That’s right, pugnuts. It’s not over.

Whatever could it be? Enjoy trying to figure it out, sucker.

The only person I feel some sort of remorse for is Tresckow’s wife. She found herself in the middle of our little Jihad and was an unintended victim. She was none too pleased to see her stairway encased in Charmin.

What the ever loving fuck do bears have to do with toilet paper?

We were leaving from BWI for home. I planned that so Tresckow would have to drive us there. Yeah, I forced quality time on him. Who wouldn’t want some quality time with me? Anyway, we did manage to stop and see some of the sights.

Whoooohoooo! AWESOME!

Somewhere north of Baltimore, Treskcow took us to a place of goodness. A place I never imagined was real. A place that made this little Mick’s dreams come true. What is this wonderland of fun and artery rotting awesomeness?

At first, I figured “big deal, it’s a gas station.” Oh no, my friends. This is no mere gas station. This is a junk food eating, coffee drinking Mecca the likes of which have never graced the Montana, Idaho, Washington area. I ate, my friends. I ate everything I could: schmuffins, schmiscuts, hot dogs drenched in nacho cheese. I basically came in my pants due to sheer gas station grub delight.

You press pictures on these touch screens and someone brings edible bliss to you.

I may have gotten slightly hopped up on Sheetz coffee and was an unholy terror on the flight back home. Who’s to say? All I know is that when Playboy offers me a contract, one of the stipulations will be payment in the form of Sheetz food. Oh, and Delaware. I’m talking total annexation. The first state? No. It will be the NO state. I will build Delaware up to Greek City-state status and be the first Playboy model to rule an annexed nation inside the continental United States. It’s a win win!

The janitorial version of hockey, I guess. Next, the sawdust on puke competition.

—Before some pug nuts accuses me of being anti-Canada and writing hate speech, let me set everyone straight. I like Canada. I’ve visited often. Some of my best friends hail from the Great White North. In fact, I love how some of Canada’s citizens celebrate their patriotism.

—
I’m an alcohol enthusiast. I dare say I can give Tresckow a run for his money; which is to say drink his Eliza Dushku obsessed ass under the table. Sure, he drinks a bottle of bourbon while watching Hell’s Kitchen. That’s kid stuff. My people refer to whiskey as “water.” You got it, my family is right off the potato boat. My Irish ancestors invented the bar fight, alcohol poisoning, and booze fueled domestic abuse. In short, Momma can drink like a champ. So, why not exercise my drinking muscles once in a while? Hey, I drink responsibly. I always cut myself off when I lose consciousness.

Not too long ago, my merry little band decided to go bar hopping. It’s the tried and true tradition of crashing a bar, drinking to the point of arguing with one of the bar stools, then moving on to the next pub before the cops arrive. It’s never a good idea to wing your itinerary. To hedge your bets, you really should plot out your drunken flight path with Google maps. It just helps avoid the inevitable geographical catastrophe. What about your cell phone’s GPS? Forget it. You can barely dial drunk, let alone use any application that requires more than just yelling at the phone.

And this is just using the key word “bars.”

—

Fridays bring out the worst in drunks. Especially if that drunk is a booze swilling, obscenity spouting, potato farming Mick. Hey, I can say that shit. I’m Irish. Not just Irish, but NORTHERN Irish. It’s not a racial slur if you’re talking about your own people. Your own smashed, whiskey gulping, fighting mad drunk people. Éirinn go Brách! Póg mo thóin!

We’re not exactly in the cradle of civilization over here. It’s an arctic tundra during the fall, winter, and spring and a sadistic Easy Bake Oven in the summer. As with most of this part of the country, civilization is completely spread out. If what you want isn’t in the town you’re in, you’re pretty much shit out of luck. You’re going to have to sit there and live without a Snuggie. If you can call that living. Or, you can suck it up and drive the two hours to the next town with a fully operational Bed Bath and Beyond.

Yes, I know this is just a backwards, terry cloth version of a Jedi’s robe
and it just might be the most ridiculous “As Seen On TV” product known to man.
Don’t ask a girl to explain. I just fucking want one!

—

A good, hardcore pub crawl in this area is only for the dedicated. I can completely use up all the bars worth going to in one city with ease. It’ll take your professional bar hopper no time to vanquish the worthwhile watering holes. Where do you go from there? You take your wasted show on the road. That’s precisely what we did.

Take that shit on the road!

—

Someone had the brilliant idea to just “head north.” Why not? Like I said, everything in this God forsaken state is a hundred miles away from everything else. Bars (the acceptable ones, anyway) tend to cluster in decent sized towns and cities. I’ve learned to keep the fuck out of back road shit holes with a flickering sign that simply reads “BAR.” I’m way too girlie, have too many teeth, and 200 pounds too light for syphilis rampant road houses.

–

.

Sorry, dude. Still no deal.

—

The only one of us not investing in a future case of Sclerosis of the Liver was the designated driver. That poor son-of-a-bitch had to drive our belligerent alcohol soaked asses from bar to bar. Before you start feeling too sorry for him, take this into consideration: 1) He’s one of those Canadian people, 2) he got to watch a couple of the girls play a drunken game of “make out and giggle,” and 3) I’m pretty sure I let him cop a feel a few times. That last part is a little hazy.

Bar by bar we worked our way North, hitting a string of towns and the only “city” in that area, Great Falls. Being nice and liquored up, it was decided that the trek North shall continue! Hey, our DD knows a pretty awesome bar a little further North. We totally should go! Fuck yeah! NORTH! BAR! GO!

Point that arrow thingy to N and move out!

—

This is when it all gets a little muddy. I remember a strip club that had some pretty rock’n wings. I want to say one of the girls ended up dry humping the stripper pole on stage (Jesus, I hope it wasn’t me). Someone brought a monkey, because the monkey knocked over the drink cart. What I clearly remember is our DD getting obliterated on shots of grain and Captain Morgan. Alright, whatever. So we’ll have to find a place to crash and sleep it off. After kindly turning down an offer for shelter from a nice man in a trench coat and sunglasses, we all decided to get a hotel room, collapse, and each engage in our own, personal vomiting ritual.

Post a sign all you want, society. I’m still going to do the Technicolor yawn in your bushes.

—

As pleasant as it may be to pack 5 people who smell like stale alcohol, vomit, and vanilla cupcakes (that one has me baffled), the first thing you want to do when you rejoin the world of the living is get the holy fuck out of that room and get some fresh air. Okay, I did take a few quick seconds to take a couple cell pics of the rest of my party in strange, passed out positions. What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t?Having no recollection of where we were, what hotel we were in, or why my underwear was now blue instead of green (I could have sworn I put on green undies before this whole thing began), I stumbled out of the building. Thank God. Finally, somewhere that doesn’t smell like a bus station in Belfast. Sun? WTF? Oh yea, I have a hangover. I scanned the area looking for someplace to get a few dozen cups of black coffee and more whiskey (hair of the dog and all). My poor eyes were just slits. They hated the sun too.

The sun is such a dick when you have a soul crushing hangover.

—

I started walking around looking for a combination Starbucks-liquor store. Hey. There sure are a lot of cars with Canadian license plates. Damn Canucks, always coming to this state, eating our food, breathing our air… Damn, Alberta? Most of the tags were from Alberta. What, is there some sort of Albertan invasion of Montana? Dude, take it.

I noticed something else that seemed strange to me. The speed limits in this town are absurdly high.

Holy vehicular homicide, Batman!

—

Oh, wait. The sign continues. Hmm, there is more writing under the numbers. Shit, I hate lowering my head. My eyeballs hurt. My neck hurts. If it was important it would be in my line of sight. Holding my chin with my hand, I slowly lower my entire head, using the least amount of neck power possible. I have no doubt that I looked like a little blonde mental case. This shit better be worth it.

—
KM/H? Canadian car tags? Alberta? The smell of cooked ham on pizza? Did I hear someone say “Aboot?” Aboot? Eh? Alright, let me do the math. Ugh, my head. No. Concentrate. Whose thong is this in my pocket? STOP! THINK. KM/H. Canadian tags. “Aboot.” This all sounds familiar. God, I want a slice of pizza. Maybe one with Canadian bac….. FUCK! It can’t be! How the shit did this happen.

I thought the US flag looked strange. It’s all maple leafy…

—

We went North, alright. The damn hoser DD did know of a kick ass place to party. He just left out the part about crossing international borders. Canada? The four of us from a country that’s had a flag for more than 50 years were a might concerned. Not so much about Canada; I mean who’s concerned about Canada? It was more about re-entering the United States and dealing with border security, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, and the fun time guys in Homeland Security. Did I mention none of us had our passports? I should have mentioned that none of us had our passports. Who the fuck takes their passport along when going on a bar crawl? Apparently, I should have. Come on. We managed to get into Canada without papers. Five sloppy drunks drove over the border without so much of a “Hey there,hi there, ho there, Eh.” How hard will it be to slip back over?

shit.

—

Canada is the roach motel of North American countries. I’m not comparing the nation to a poisonous roach infested trap, so don’t get your panties in a bunch, Canada. It’s more like Americans can enter, but they can’t leave sort of thing. Obviously, no one gives a flying fuck who enters Canada. But, when you want to turn around and drive the other way, there’s a problem. You see, the US is all bent out of shape about terrorism and terrorists sneaking past the border from Canada and doing harm unto us. Hey, that’s a legitimate concern. The problem is that its nye– im-fucking-possible to secure a 3,142 mile long border. In the good old days, if you lived close enough, you could pop into Canada and back, no questions asked. Today, fuck you! You’re a terrorist until we can prove otherwise. I sure as shit fit the profile being 5′ 1″ 100 pounds, pale, and blonde. I’m part of the little known Al Qaeda cell made up completely of angry Mick leftovers from the PIRA(IRA to you slaves of movie pop culture).

But, when the Irish found out that whiskey and Guinness were forbidden by religious law, they promptly gave everyone the finger and went to the nearest pub.

—

After the last of us came to, we decided to make a break for it. Our Canadian DD couldn’t remember exactly how we came in. It seemed like every secondary road was blocked from the Alberta side. Awesome! They’re just waving people through! We might just pull this off!

Fuck.

—

Before I knew it, a couple of officers from the Royal Canadian Mounted Police knocked on our window. Our ship was sunk. We were caught. Maybe it was because the car reeked of vomit and Irish Car Bombs. Maybe it was because I said the phrase “Irish Car Bombs.” Whatever it was, the Horsemen nabbed us and impounded the car. Why? Fucking racial profiling, man!

Once again, four out of the five of our little posse came from the States. Out of that four, exactly ZERO could offer any sort of paper work to the RCMP, let alone US border patrol. Our state drivers licenses were useless. My attempt to seduce my way out of Canadian custody fell flat. Great. Now I have self-esteem issues to boot. Fucking Mounties.

For the record, we were “detained” not arrested. There’s a mile of difference. Being arrested involves jail and a cavity search. Being detained entails a lot of retarded questioning, bad coffee, and constantly reaffirming that when you said “Irish Car Bomb” you meant the damn drink.

Don’t you Sasquatches mix drinks?

—

It was a chicken and the egg routine. In order to get past the border, we needed our passports. In order to get our passports, we needed to get past the border. Our options were:

Have someone mail them to us while we wait in Calgary, in custody.

Get shipped to the US Embassy in Ottawa.

Have someone drive to the border checkpoint and bring them to us.

Undertake a Steve McQueen type “Great Escape.”

We didn’t have enough shovels or Charles Bronson to complete number 4. Number 1 and 2 would just take us deeper into Canada; the OPPOSITE direction we needed to go. Not to mention staying longer than humanly possible. Number 3 seemed the most possible. I knew precisely who to recruit. My big brother! That’s it! He lives where this whole carnival of dipshittery began. That was only a mere… 1… 2… 4… 6 hours away! That’s practically down the road.

After some convincing, pleading, and threatening to tell everyone that he secretly watches iCarly when no one’s around (oops), he reluctantly agreed. It took him over an hour to locate and secure all four of the needed passports. A friend of his tagged along for the ride to watch the hilarity ensue. Joke’s on that asshole. He doesn’t have a passport, so the border patrol made him wait on the US side while my brother drove through. HA!

I was free! Even though, I’m damn sure I was entered in some sort of Albertian-Canadian-Canuckian watch list.

I’m sorry, Ms. Ren. You seem to be a person of interest…

—

I suppose I should be grateful that it was the RCMP that kicked up a fuss and not Homeland Security. I’m not sure I could take a stint in Gitmo. I guess I should be grateful that my brother made a 12 hour round trip to bail his little sister out of an international bind. But, dude, some of those strippers at the club were HOT!